


Retaliation

by onyxcandy (coveredbyroses)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Frightening situations, Object Insertion, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/onyxcandy
Summary: Dean’s out for blood after escaping the Devil’s Trap. Deciding it best you separate, Sam orders you to hide. Dean finds you.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extremely dark series. Future warnings for Non-Con. I will update warnings as the series progresses.

His fingertips ache into you as they press into your arm. He’s shaking you with his working arm, hazel eyes lit with a feverish desperation. “Don’t even tell me where,” he pants, breathless. “Just hide!”

Dean’s gotten loose, slipped himself free from that Devil’s Trap after a few - apparently too-effective blood treatments - and now he’s somewhere hidden in the bunker; prowling. You’d been watching him in shifts, the two of you, but you’d been in dire need of a nap, and Sam had turned his back just for a  _moment_ …

“…Okay?!” You’re woozy with heart-hammering fear, and sound seems to come in and out, but you nod fervently. Sam kisses you then, hard, and his hand leaves you as you spin on your heels.

You run.

You can hear his voice as your boots pound against the waxed tile; low and booming as he taunts, as he threatens. You hear your name as well as Sam’s, but you can’t focus on it - you have to run, have to hide.

You slide to a stop, nearly falling to your ass with the sudden cessation of motion, and then you’re shouldering your way into a vacant bedroom, decide maybe you’re deep enough into the guts of the place to conceal yourself.

You close the door silently, not even the engagement of the latch reaching your ears. Your eyes quickly scan the small room, and you decide on a space between the chest of drawers and the wall. You can crouch there, weapon in hand, and if you’re left with no choice…

Fuck. Weapon.

Warm relief spreads in your chest when you spot the Katana on the wall. It won’t kill him, but it’ll slow him down long enough for you to get out, to get help. You have to stretch up on your toes to reach it, but then you’ve got it, feel the balanced weight of the blade in your hand. It unsheathes with a sharp, metallic sound, and you kick the sheath under the bed, then dart to your decided hiding spot.

You get on your knees, ass on your heels, the toes of your boots flush with the baseboard. Both hands are curled around the ivory hilt, holding it just in front of you so that the heavy strip of steel is tilted against your shoulder.

There’s a murmur of voice and then it’s quiet, so fucking  _quiet -_ then  _a_ heavy thud, the sound of it making your insides twist. The bunker falls silent again, silent enough that it makes you want to stop breathing, but you hear the faint thump of boots growing louder and stronger-

You pray that it’s Sam.

But the grating baritone of your name pluming down the hallway tells you it’s very much  _not_  Sam.

“Not much in the mood for Hide-and-Seek, dollface…Why don’t ya come on outta there?”  His voice is muffled a little behind the walls, but it’s still clear enough to have ice crystals flickering through your veins.

Your mouth is dry and it’s hard to swallow. You shift your grip on the blade’s hilt, your palms sliding a little too easily with the film of sweat gathering in the fine creases.

“Sammy!” you hear him bark, and there’s the tiniest whisper of relief as the demon’s attention leaves you, but it snuffs out just as quickly as it started, because - Sam - oh god.

Your chin dips, eyes clamped as you pray to anyone - to  _anything_  listening. Your lips twitch against each other as the soundless words stream forward, and-

A thunderous crash jerks you from concentration, sounds just a few feet down the hall, though you’re lost on which direction it’s coming from. A terrifying silence hangs in the air just after, and then hollow footsteps-

Another explosion of what sounds like splintering wood and breaking hinges-

He’s kicking the doors in.

Bang after booming bang resounds down the hallway - closer and closer. You press yourself harder into the wall, drop to your ass, knees drawn up to your front because it’ll be easier to pop to your feet this way if there’s going to be a fight - and - there  _will_  be a fight because he’s going to find you here, and oh god, you don’t think you can do this-

Eyes careful, you peer around the old towering hunk of drawers, pull your gaze down to the crack underneath the door - a shadow of boots; heavy, brown boots.

You rear back just in time for the door to  _erupt_  in a deafening explosion; chunks of finished wood cutting through the air and settling along the bed and cracking against the hard floor.

A low thump tells you he’s stepped inside, another one tells you he’s searching; scanning.

You aren’t breathing now, chest expanded, knuckles bleach-white around the slippery hilt of your weapon. He’s rounding the far corner of the bed; broad, burgundy-covered shoulders looming tall. He turns easy on his feet then, head snapping sharply toward you-

And he grins.

“Well,” he drawls, voice gritty. “Ain’t you a sight?” He makes his way toward you on steady legs, and you drag your eyes from the deadly set of his face to the bulk of polished wood and metal encased in a massive fist-

A hammer.

“Dean, please…” You can’t be bothered that you’re already a whimpering, pleading mess - you can’t take this, can’t stand the thought of what you know he’s capable of.

The blade shakes in your grip - and Dean’s eyes center on it. “Really?” he drones, grin crooked. “You wanna fight me, sugar?”

“No,” you choke, voice cracked. “I don’t. Please don’t make me.”

Dean chuckles dry, walks slowly to where you’re still plastered against the wall. He crouches down, forearms braced on the thighs, hammer dangling menacingly in between. “Make you, huh?” He looks you up and down. “Looks like you came prepared - like you were lookin’ for it.”

“No,” you whisper, head shaking. “We just want to help you, Dean. We just want to-”

“I don’t want help,” Dean hisses, lip curled up into a snarl. “I don’t  _need_  it.” His face falls into a gleeful grin. “I like who I am now -  _what_  I am.”

You dumbly gape at him, eyes wide. “You don’t mean that,” you breathe, shaky. “You would never… the  _real_  you would never-”

Dean’s face draws up, eyes darkening; moss to ink. “This is the real me!” he barks, the boom of it settling deep and icy into your bones. He huffs a breath, and smiles closed-lipped. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Green-again eyes bloom thoughtful, lips parting. “The old Dean’s gone,” he says, voice stone-deep. Emerald drowns under onyx, grin blinding. “Allow me to introduce you to the  _new_  me.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s out for blood after escaping the Devil’s Trap. Deciding it best you separate, Sam orders you to hide. Dean finds you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger warnings for Non-Con. Proceed with caution.

Thumping, scuffing - a rasp against waxed linoleum. You blink; the blare of lamplight slamming your eyes closed again, and then-

“There she is.” Dean. His voice is a low, velvety rumble, and for a moment you’re relieved - but - shit.  _Dean_.

It all comes back to you like a blow to the gut; black eyes and ivory teeth. You go to hitch up on your elbows - but you can’t. A swivel of your head left, right - shit. Rope’s wound tight around both wrists, and when you stretch your neck -  _damnit_  - the binding’s secured expertly to the headboard. Instinct jerks your legs, and, of course - your ankles are neatly tied to the footboard.

Your senses start to clear then; there’s a pounding ache wrapped around your skull, and you’re tongue’s like cotton; heavy in your mouth. Sweat’s dried against your skin, leaves you tacky and cold. You can feel the blanket underneath you - a little too much of it-

A quick look down - and Christ, you’re naked.

Fear grips you tight, ice dropping heavy to your belly. The bed dips next to your shin as Dean sinks his weight into it, long legs draped over the side. He looks at you over the curve of his shoulder, eyes green - though it doesn’t help.

“Hunters,” he says low. “You put all this…” He waves his hands, searching for the right word, “ _energy_  into things well beyond your control.”

“You?” you snap back, words spilling faster than your brain can process. “You’re a hunter too.”

“Mmm,” he nods, and holds up a finger. “I  _was_  - until now.” He twists a little more towards you, lays a hot hand on your knee in a way that makes you ripple. “See - this?” He drags his hands through the air, toward himself, “This hasn’t only brought me freedom - it’s brought…clarity. I see what that…life has brought me. What it’s  _taken_  from me. All the time I spent-”

“You saved people, Dean. Please. You - you gotta see that.”

Dean smiles easy, drops his chin. “And for what? You think those people are just  _fine_  now? That they sleep nice and sound after what they’ve seen? They’d be better off dead.”

“No - no, Dean - just…” You tug at your arms so that the rope creaks against wood. “Untie me, okay? We can talk about this-”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, smooths his palm up to your thigh. “You just sit tight and pretty.” His face steels, jaw working under stubbled skin. “You think you’re so goddamned innocent,” he sneers, stony voice gritting through clamped teeth. “All I wanted was to be left alone. I’m good with who I am. But you and  _him…_ ” He shakes his head, lips pulled in genuine disgust. “You just couldn’t let me go.”

You’re starting to shake all over, unsure if it’s from the ice of his words or the dank chill of the room. “Dean, c’mon - please, just-”

“Don’t go beggin’ just yet,” he says, and grins. “I think you know where we’re headed. And there ain’t a goddamned thing you can do about it.”

And that -  _that_  has an all too fresh wave of fear prickling over your scalp. You go to scream - but Dean’s on you with inhuman speed, gets a hand plastered so hard over your mouth that you can taste the salt of it.

“No, no,” he murmurs, eyes frighteningly close to yours. “Let’s not have any of that.” Another hand starts to grope at your tits, rough and hard. “Shoulda been me,” he whispers. “Sweet little thing like you.  _Way_  outta Sammy’s league.”

You’re sobbing into the meaty heel of his hand, hips lurching in desperation, but he just smiles, just keeps feeling and squeezing. “You’re scared, baby.” He says it like it’s fact - and it is. “That’s good. You should be.”

You take a sharp suck of air through your nose and close your eyes. This is bad - really fucking bad - but you’re no help to yourself panicking the way you are. Your mind snaps to Sam, and though your thoughts are pushing towards it - no. Sam’s okay, he has to be. As warped as Dean is now, as gone as he is, he wouldn’t kill his brother; his only blood. Worst case is he’s beaten and bloody somewhere - dungeon maybe - but he’s okay. He’s alive. He has to be.

“That’s it, gorgeous,” Dean says, “just breathe for me.” You nod against him, eyes snapped open again, because really it’s all you  _can_  do, and he seems satisfied, peels his hand away until it’s just a hover. “You scream and I’m gonna cut your tongue out. We clear on that?”

You can’t seem to find your voice, so you nod, crisp and urgent. “There’s a good girl,” he glitters, and he leaves you to get down on his forearms, crushes down against you; hard chest under soft flannel. He dips down, bites down on your bottom lip hard enough to bleed, and you can smell the hard spice of him. “You really should relax,” he says, drawing back, and starts to elbow his way down the length of you, leaves your lip hot and smarting. “Could be good for you - at least for a while.” The words curl around you in a bone-chilling grip, but then he’s settled between the valley of your taut thighs, already breathing hot against your cunt.

It’s an awful thing; laid bare and stretched open for this monster - for Dean. You pull your eyes up to the ceiling as he slicks his tongue up through your folds, and you shudder when he flicks against your clit. He licks you again, slippery-wet, and loops his arms under your thighs, fingers tight and deep into trained muscle.

Your throat pulls with the urge to scream, to sob, but you can’t - won’t. You zero all your focus into Sam; breathe and endure. Sam will come. He can stop this.

 

*

 

_“Anywhere in the world,” Sam says. “Where would it be?”_

_You pull your head from the warmth of his shoulder and blink at him. “Whaddya mean?”_

_“If you could go anywhere,” he says, smile sweet, “right now. Where would you go?”_

_You grin, shift harder into his lap, and lay your hand over his, right where it’s curved against your thigh. “Here,” you say. “I wanna be right here.”_

_“Gross,” Dean cringes from across the motel room. “I’d tell you to get a room, but I’m in it.”_

_“Hey man,” Sam beams. “Not our fault we nabbed the last vacancy.”_

_“No, but you could lay off each other, and, I dunno,_ try _to act professional?”_

_“Oh, c’mon, Dean,” you quip, “we’ve got decent WiFi - why don’t you fire up some of that cartoon porn?”_

_“Anime,” Dean grits over the lip of his beer, “it’s called Anime. Have a little class, huh?”_

_“You sure this is your happy place?” Sam tries again, still grinning as he tucks your hair behind your ear._

_“No doubt,” you say, cheek back on his shoulder so you can nuzzle into his neck. “Right here.”_

 

_*_

 

You try to go back there, back to that cheap motel room, curled into Sam’s lap. But Dean’s voice keeps cutting through the hazy memory - and his tongue.

He mumbles into you between every few wet drags,  _taste so good… such a sweet little pussy… gonna make you come all over me._

Your jaw’s locked tight, eyes pinned to a dark spot on the ceiling. He’s got you hot and buttery, and you tell yourself it’s just from his mouth, that there’s no way you’re actually wet from this, but then he gets his teeth into it, lets them scrape down over your clit. You hiss a little as the bolt of pleasure surges, and clamp your eyes shut when he does it again.

Blunt fingernails bite into your skin, leaving his mark; a reminder that’ll surely be imprinted into you for days. His tongue slicks down to your entrance; wriggles and swirls and  _presses-_

Your eyes crack open as he licks deep into your cunt, stubbled chin snug and scratching just underneath. You chance a look down - and instantly regret it.

You don’t have to see his mouth to know he’s grinning behind the thick stretch of his tongue; his eyes are a deep malachite, narrowed in glee, and the yellow light from the lamp snags on the aged lines sprouting from the corners.

Calloused hands glide up your thighs to your hips, and grips you  _hard_  just as he starts to thrust his tongue in and out.

Your body’s responding with an eager interest, against every thread of your will; clit pulsing and swollen, belly hot and knotted. Sweat starts to break over your skin, and you’re quaking in a full-bodied shiver that has very little to do with the temperature of the room.

Something shifts and creaks - you don’t think it’s the bed because you don’t feel the movement, and Dean’s really not moving anything besides his tongue. A sharp intake of breath, and then, “Dean?”

Sam.  _Sam!_  Oh, thank God. You bend at the neck, squinting over the weight of the man between your legs, but the door’s closed - you would have seen him come in, or  _heard-_

“Dean!” His voice is like cracked concrete, deep and grainy and strained.

Dean draws back, hefts back to his haunches, leaving your cunt wet and cold. “Heya, little brother,” he grins sick, but his eyes are flicked to yours, dark and steady. “Glad you’re awake for this.” He knees off the bed, and walks to the dimmest corner of the room, to the right of the door.

Sam’s there, almost a silhouette, but you can see that he’s tied snug to a chair like you’ve seen so many times before; rope coiled around his wrists and ankles - but it’s never been by his brother’s doing. Dean braces a hand on the hard back of it, bends down to Sam’s ear with his face still angled to yours.

“Just look at her, Sammy,” he says, the shining gleam of his grin catching under the low light. “Beautiful. But you always knew that.” Sam jerks underneath him, chest desperately heaving. Dean laughs, amused. He gets his hand on his shoulder, “Settle now. Wantcha to see this.”

“Let her go,” Sam seethes. “She’s not part of this.”

“Oh!” Dean booms, then cuts into a grit-deep chuckle. “Not part of this,” he echoes, crouches down beside him until he has to look up to catch his eyes. “That’s gold, Sam.”

“Dean,” Sam tries again, voice softer. “Please.”

You have to look away, can’t take the way he’s looking at Dean, like he’s just about to break. All for you.

Dean rises, gives Sam a precise thump on the shoulder. “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says, flat. “I’m gonna make your little bitch come - and you’re gonna watch. If you close your eyes or look away even  _once -_ I’m gonna bash her brains in.”

That draws your eyes back, and chills you to the marrow. Dean’s steadfast gaze is back on you, features hard.

“We clear, Sammy?”

Sam swallows, and you can make out the dim bob of his Adam’s apple. “I’m not gonna let you do this, Dean.”

Dean swivels his head down at his brother. “You’re not, huh? You just… gonna break outta those ropes and save the girl? That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? I mean - that’s what we  _did_. Sometimes.”

“Dean-”

“See - here’s the thing, Sammy. Our lives? A waste. But we can change that. We can live in a world without that weight on our shoulders. But you don’t see that. Not yet.” He tilts his head to you and smiles dark. “But I’m gonna show ya.”


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s out for blood after escaping the Devil’s Trap. Deciding it best you separate, Sam orders you to hide. Dean finds you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger Warnings for Non-Con

Dean’s back between your legs, wide shoulders hard against your thighs while his tongue is a hot, slippery-soft slick against your folds.

You hate that it feels so good, hate that your blood sings with every decadent swipe of his tongue. He’s breathing hungry little noises into you, making a show of it just for Sam - who’s gagged now, screaming desperate and muffled.

You’ve stopped trying to calm him because - it’s useless. There’s nothing you can say to quell the fear or the seething rage, so you’ve resorted to blocking out the sound as well as you can.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t blank your mind or slip into some far away oasis. Dean’s there and too-present, his heat and pressure tugging you right back down to reality every time you come close to drifting.

Heat floods up right under your skin when plush lips latch onto your clit, pulling and working the little nub until it’s pulsing hot. You gasp when he pushes a finger into the sluiced-up heat of your cunt, sinks in to the last knuckle before fucking it in and out.

He pulls back, lips wet, and glitters up at you with still-green eyes. “Damn, Sammy. She’s got a  _fantastic_  little pussy. Nice and  _tight_.” Sam thunders behind the gag. “What’s that?” Dean says, twists at the neck to look back, then swings back to you, eyes oily. “Oh, yeah. I bet she  _will_  feel great on my dick.”

Prickling panic cuts through the heat at that, pleas pouring from your lips. “No-no-no! Please-”

“Patience, baby,” Dean says. “Wanna taste you a little more first.”

“Please, no!”

But then he’s diving back down, swirling his tongue down where his knuckle meets your cunt, then licks back up to flick at your clit.

You feel yourself getting wetter as he laps at you, and then another finger finds your opening, sinks in deep beside the first.

Everything goes rigid when he starts to pump, tongue swirling wet over and over your clit. Your belly goes tight again, but it isn’t real, just your body responding to external stimuli. That’s all.

Dean curls his fingers, expertly crooks them so he’s rubbing so deliciously at that rough patch buried so deep inside.

“No!” you gasp, but it’s more mouthed than said, and then you’re falling, whiting out as the  _most_  intense pleasure you think you’ve ever felt bursts through you. You’re scared, yes, but it’s like the fear has woven itself into the hot swell of it all, making the rolling waves of your orgasm all the more powerful.

Dean’s still fucking his fingers into you, jabbing at your tightening muscles to the point of pain.

Sam’s wildly thrashing in the chair, damp screeches punching from his throat. Dean pulls his fingers free, slick and shining, wipes a sticky smear across your thigh as he pulls up to his knees. His lips and cheeks are wet and your stomach rolls as he cracks an icy grin.

“Hot damn,” he says, voice stony, “that was good. She ever come for you like that, little brother?” Sam’s cursing garbled, yanking against the ropes hard enough to tear skin.

“It’s okay, baby,” you hear yourself say, your voice weak and thin and airy. “It’s over now.”

Dean chuckles deep, plants a hot hand on your belly, just over the pubic bone, and smooths up so he can grope at your tits. “We ain’t near done, babydoll.”

*

You wake blinking and bleary-eyed up at the ceiling, forgetting where you are for a blip, until you feel the tug at your wrists and the tackiness between your legs.

Head lolling to the right, you see the wrinkled cloth and chloroform bottle on the nightstand. Shit. Slinging your head forward, you see Sam; slumped in the chair, chest the slow rise and fall of sleep, chin dipped to his chest so that his hair hangs a tousled mop over his cheeks.

“Sam!” You hiss. “Sam!”

A rasp of boots, and the door swings open-

“Rise and shine,” Dean beams, then looks at Sam. “Oh, he’s still sleeping…” He’s whispering now, teeth gleaming as he grins back at you. “We’ll just have to be  _real_  quiet then, huh?”

New fear pulls and pebbles your skin as he slowly rounds the bed, boots a soft thump against the waxy floor.

He eases himself onto the edge of the bed, strong back to you, and quietly slides the bedside drawer open. There’s a low scrape, like metal against wood - and, oh god. The hammer. He turns it in his grip, lamplight bouncing off the gleaming head.

The sight of the thing alone has your heartbeat thundering in your ears, has ice webbing over your scalp and winding down your spine.

“What… What are you gonna do with that?” You regret the question as soon as tumbles over your lips. You realize, too late, that you don’t want to know.

He pulls back up to his looming height, and turns menacingly toward you. “This?” He murmurs, flips the tool and skillfully catches it by the handle. “We’re gonna have fun with this.”

“N-no…” Your voice comes out in a panicked rush of air, and it earns you a sickening grin.

He gets a knee up on the bed, eyes flicking to Sam for a breath. Satisfied that his brother’s still out cold, he knees up to your side. “Open up for me, doll.”

Well beyond terrified, you press your lips into a pale line and thrash your head from side to side. You know where this is headed, and if you’ve got any fight left in you at all, you’re sure as hell going to use it.

He jams a hand under your jaw, thumb and fingers pressing painfully into the bolts. “You  _really_  don’t wanna piss me off, sugar.”

It’s not even a threat, you’re well aware of this; it’s a promise. A promise of pain and torture and whatever else he’s picked up from his time with Alastair and kept furled up dormant in the back of his mind all these years.

You give him a faint, but participatory nod, and let your jaw go lax under Dean’s fingers. “Atta girl,” he says, and runs the flared base of the handle across the plump of your bottom lip. His eyes gleam, a peak of white teeth behind a stretch of ruddy lips, and then slips the hilt into your mouth, finished mahogany clacking against your teeth and sliding over your tongue. You squeeze your eyes closed, jaw open, because you can’t stomach this, can’t bear the thought of Sam rousing, seeing-

“Suck it,” Dean whispers. “Suck it like it’s the best goddamned cock you’ve ever had.” You take in a breath, then close your lips around the black rubber grip. You can taste the salt of Dean’s hand. “Good girl,” he croons low, pushes the handle in until you can feel the harsh bump at the back of your throat. He shifts on his knees, plants a hand on the pillow next to your head, and starts to work the hammer in and out of your mouth; long, deep pumps that make you choke and sputter around the wood. “That’s it,” he shimmers. “Might have you suck me off later.”

That makes your belly knot, but you zero your focus into hollowing your cheeks and working your tongue against the underside of the foreign thing thrusting into your mouth. “See?” Dean rumbles. “This ain’t so bad. Get it nice and wet for me.”

Your eyes pop open then, because there it is - his sick intentions laid out true behind crude words, behind gleeful green eyes. You start to lose your focus as fear grips all over again, and then he’s speeding up, jerking the thing hard enough that the wide end batters the wall of your throat.

Drool runs down your chin, rolls down under the soft slope of your jaw as you gag, tears springing hot and stinging at your eyes. This is all so unreal; a vivid, lucid nightmare that you’d give anything to wake from, but you won’t, and you know that, so all you can do is pray that it will be over soon, that Sam won’t wake-

“That’s enough,” Dean says, a sudden edge to his voice. He slips the handle free, and you swallow, gasping, watching as Dean grins at the slippery shine you’ve left on the wood and rubber.

You cant your hips back as far as the mattress allows as Dean brings the hammer down between your stretched-open legs. “Shh… just relax, darlin’,” he says, dropping his ass to his heels, and gets a wide-fingered hand braced on your belly. “S’better if you just…” He nudges the hard base against your entrance, gives it a testing push, “relax.” Your thighs lock up at the intrusion, cunt already constricting. “That hurt, baby?” There’s no concern in his voice, lips twisted in that now too-familiar grin.

“Yes!” You gasp. “Please don’t…”

“Mmm,” he hums. “I love the way you beg, honey.” A sob catches in your sore throat, and you sniff it back, clamp your eyes closed because this is happening, and-

He ducks down and spits, the warm splatter of it hitting on your folds, slicking down. He uses a finger to smear it down where the wood’s dipped into you, and then starts to push. “See how nice I am?” Dean gloats. “Hey!” he hisses, and gives your thigh a light smack. “Look at me.”

You blink, freezing up at the pitchy ink of hard eyes. His mouth is set firm, jaw clenched. “See how  _nice_  I am?” he grits. “I coulda just shoved this thing up to your guts, but I’m being gentle to you, baby.” You nod tight, and swallow down another hitching sob. “Tell me I’m nice,” he demands, the words a sharp crisp through ground teeth.

“You’re nice,” you whisper, fresh tears brimming at your eyes. “Thank you.”

His face goes soft, the black of his eyes receding back to green. “You’re welcome.” He starts to work the handle in again with a grinding, corkscrewing motion, and it hurts, the odd shape of it scraping at your walls.

You take in sharp, thready little breaths through your nose, jaw setting tight at the white-hot pain of it all. You can feel every texture of the thing, can feel the bump of the grip. He inches it in until the root of the handle bumps into your cervix, inner muscles twitching and rippling at the penetration.

“Now,” Dean says, wriggling the thing until your gaze draws to his. “Obviously I’m gonna fuck you with my handy little friend here. And I’m not gonna go easy on ya. Feel free to scream.”

You do crack a sob then, fingers curling into your palms as he drags the handle back - and roughly  _shoves_ back in. You yelp at the violent force; god it burns, feels like he’s splitting you in half, and then he  _slowly_  pulls back again.

He finds a rhythm; long, quick strokes that feel like they’re taking flesh. You’re throat’s tight with the effort of holding back the noise - Sam has to sleep through this, he has to-

But then he cranks up the speed, violently pistoning the wooden handle in and out of your smarting cunt, and you can’t help it, can’t dam down the screams tearing up through your throat.

Sam startles awake, you can hear the creak of wood, and he groans a little with disorientation, and then he’s grunting, barking behind the gag.

Dean doesn’t stop thrusting, just flicks his eyes up to yours and lets them slick to black. “Nice nap, Sammy?” It’s almost a yell, the boom of his voice. Sam bellows desperate and pitiful. “Relax, man,” Dean grins. “Think she’s startin’ to like it. Isn’t that right, gorgeous?” You moan raspy, throat like sandpaper. “That’s right,” Dean beams. “My little painslut.”

Your cunt is raw, the pain blooming up your spine. It’s enough to have you praying for unconsciousness, and you’re nearly there, can see black spots blotting at the edges of your vision. You go still… and wait.

“Hey!” Dean says, lands another sharp slap on your thigh. “Don’t you even think about it.” You look at him, blinking through the ember-hot pain. He stills suddenly, space-black eyes tacked to yours. “Y’want me to stop?”

You let out a wet, hiccuping breath. “Yes! Please - oh god,  _please_.”

“Then you better come.”

And that’s - what? No. There’s no way in this very real Hell that you could possibly-

Sam lets out another stone-deep scream, and Dean grins, amused. “Here, baby. I’ll help.”

He licks his thumb, crushes it right on your clit, and starts to rub hard, swirling circles. It makes heat bloom fresh and hot, makes your pussy clench painfully around the unmoving hammer. He resets his grip, and starts to plunge it in and out, while he keeps the whirling pressure right on-

“Just come,” Dean says. “That’s your ticket outta this.”

You set your mouth tight and close your eyes, fix your awareness on the admittedly good pressure on your clit, try to convince yourself that the pumping feels good. Maybe you can imagine it’s Sam, that he’s - but god, he won’t stop  _screaming-_

“Sam!” His name punches out a dry crack from your throat. “Please. Just - fuck! Please just be quiet. Please…”

You aren’t looking at him, but he concedes, falls quiet again, simmers down into a rhythm of strained, heavy breaths, and then you’re mustering every thread of remaining strength into relaxing into it, into just melting underneath firm rub of his thumb.

Dean’s groaning deep, inky eyes no doubt pinned to what’s happening between your legs. “Fuck,” he breathes.  “Wish I’s recordin’ this. Goddamn.”

Your hips begin to pop up, lurching as the pleasure starts to climb and crest. “You watchin’ this, Sammy?” Dean taunts, and fuck, you’re getting wet, nipples stiff and muscles taut. It hurts still, yes, but the way he’s just-

He switches from swirling to flicking and strumming, and he’s pumping so fast, and shit, the burning ache is quickly ebbing under tingly bliss.

“Come on, pretty girl,” Dean sing-songs. “Just let go and come…”

And, oh - fuck. It’s rushing up close… closer… and then-

Dean brings his hand up and cracks it down hard, right over where you’re pulsing and pounding. “Fuck!” you squeak, and then you’re falling,  _exploding_  as shocking pleasure hurtles through you in thick bursts and swells.

“Oh my god…” Dean says, and you barely hear him over the rush of blood thumping in your ears and the muffled, anguished cries from Sam in the corner. “Check this out, Sam.” Dean’s grinning bright, eyes bottomless pools of impossible black. “She really is a painslut - did ya hear how hard she came?”

Sam growls something that sounds a lot like  _kill you,_ but Dean just chuckles and slicks the hammer out of your aching cunt, thunks it to the side of the bed. He climbs up, knees pressed up against your hips, and drops down to lick at your lips. “Oh, baby,” he breathes, and thumbs the tears from your cheeks, smears them down to your temples. “These for me?” He huffs a laugh, breath fanning hot against you. “You’re just the  _cutest.”_

Sam’s still jerking against the ropes, lets out a final agonizing roar, then lets his head thump to the back of the chair, defeated. Dean rolls off the bed, scoops up the hammer, and walks to Sam. He wipes the sticky-wet handle on Sam’s thigh, then lets lays it across his lap. He bends down, braces both hands on his brother’s forearms, where they’re bound to the narrow arms of the chair.

You can’t see his face, but you hear his words; stony and clear. “Now, we’re  _really_  gonna have some fun,” he says. “You’re, uh, hot little piece has got me hard as  _steel_  - so I’m gonna fuck her now. Right in front of ya. Pay attention, Sammy. You just might learn somethin’.”


End file.
